Lots of bloggers have been writing about their plans to participate in National Novel Writing Month or NaNoWriMo this November. Alas, I will not be among them.

I tried to do NaNoWriMo five years ago. I naively thought 1,500 words a day was doable for me. Trouble is I spent the first few days watching TV for inspiration and began 7,500 words in the hole. I never climbed back out.

But then Jen from Sips of Jen and Tonic–The Greatest Blog on Earth™–gave me an idea. Or rather I stole her idea and hope she’s okay with it. Instead of writing a novel that no one, including myself, would want to read, why not try to do a post a day?

Jen is full of good ideas at all times.

Back during the Civil War when I began this blog, I did write a post a day–sometimes two! And then I petered out and spent my time constructing a mythical land created entirely out of potato peels.

But I think I can do it. Like that little engine who thought it could get up that hill, and then was sucked into a seedy underbelly of drugs and debauchery. I may be confusing it with Charlie Sheen.

I will admit, there will be blog posts that will have more tags than actual words in the post such as this:

Monday!

-Or-

Post!

These count.

As will posts of random clip art.

And there’s a 99.99999% chance I will just reblog whatever Jen writes every day because she’s ridiculously funny, and I ran out of ideas after “Post!”

The little dude was actually getting the chalky-white look of an old piece of dog poop found 17 years later in a sewer grate. But it’s been revived–rejuvenated by amazing displays of turdism that should be featured in the book The Most Unbelievable Turd-duckens Since Turduckens Were Invented (release date: Christmas 2012)

“I am truly overflowing with turdish delight.”

So this politician said something unbelievable at a debate. This guy is a Republican—surprise–and he said something horrible relating to women–double surprise. Then a bullhorn with a hairpiece made out of the straw from the Wizard of Oz scarecrow held a press conference that entailed him defecating freely from his gaping maw.

Let’s begin with the turd masquerading as an actual candidate for the U.S. Senate. Let me remind you that two people in the whole fucking state get this job. Like this is a big deal.

Giant turd Richard Mourdock decided it was a fine time to spew this from his mouth:

“Even if life begins in that horrible situation of rape, that is something that God intended to happen.”

I’m going to address this to all men:

Men, never say anything about rape unless it is this:

“Rape is fucking awful. I’m sorry that people get raped because that is fucking awful.”

That’s all you should say about rape. Ever. If you want to tack a “but” onto the end of that sentence to add something like “she was wearing a short skirt” or “God gives babies because he’s on board with rape” then it’s time to have your tongue surgically removed so you can never utter those sentences.

Mourdock has since apologized because his words were “taken out of context.”

I’m sorry, Mr. Mourdick, but the only way I will accept your apology is if this was the sentence you snotted before saying that completely bizarre sentence. “What I’m about to say is the ravings of a small-dicked lunatic…”

Turd. Big fucking turd.

The second turd is Donald Trump, which is basically a given. Just assume that every week, Donald Trump wins Turd of the Week™. He is a masterful turd.

So he was on the old tee-vee, and he realized that there are no plans to air The Apprentice anytime soon, so he decided to say something stupid about Pres. Barack Obama. He said:

“Turd turd turd turd turd. Turd turd turd turd turd.”

I don’t know if that’s 100 percent accurate, but I immediately go deaf when Donald Trump speaks. You can read this if you need to know more.

Friday was supposed to be the day my tonsils were liberated from my body.

But alas it is not to be.

My pre-operative experience has been…troubling? Is that the right word?

No, I think I meant to write “giant clusterfuck.”

If you had read this earlier post, you would know that I had a pre-op consultation last Friday that was about as helpful as a duck fart. The nurse practitioner could not tell me anything about the surgical procedure I was about to undergo and decided the whole-fasting-before-anethesia was not something I needed to know upfront.

This past Monday, I called the doctor’s office first thing to try to schedule an appointment with the doctor.

“But you had a consultation with the nurse practitioner.”

Yup. But I have questions about the actual surgery that she wasn’t able to answer.

“Did you review the paperwork she gave you?”

Didn’t give me any.

“Well let me put you on with the nurse.”

Oh joy.

When she got on the phone, I said straight off that I was really only calling to schedule an appointment with the doctor so I could get the answers to questions she didn’t know.

“Well I don’t know what you mean Speaker. I spent 45 minutes with you answering all your questions and concerns.”

Uh, what now? The appointment lasted 15 minutes. I should know because it was at 4, I was back in my car at 4:15 and had ample time to slam my head repeatedly into the dining room table, which prompted my husband to call the doctor’s office at 4:30 to try to schedule a new consultation. Office hours being until 5, they of course were already closed for the day so my husband ending up talking to the emergency phone service.

But I guess I was getting my lengthy consult and didn’t realize it.

“You know you were so anxious that I guess you weren’t listening to me.”

This is when I began to wonder if I was on some kind of hidden camera show, like at any moment my doctor and Ashton Kutcher would pop out and yell “We got you! Ha! Okay, here’s how the surgery’s going to go…”

But didn’t happen. I explained that I knew exactly what she said, which was why I was trying to get another consultation. I said: I had to ask you about fasting before anesthesia. I had to ask that! You didn’t even tell me that part.

“Well I was just trying to help the doctor. And I felt I needed to spend the majority of the time getting you to calm down.”

Okay at this point I’m wondering if she was mixing me up another patient? It’s not like I was swatting at imaginary bees, defecating freely from my bowels and howling like a banshee at the appointment. I might have had a confused look on my face, but that’s because I realized I could be getting better information from a Snapple bottle cap.

I felt I needed to get this train, which was currently heading full-speed to Crazy Town, to make a stop at Saneville. I figured I would be showing my face at this office again and didn’t want her to “accidentally” stab me with her stethoscope. I asked her if she could answer my questions, which she did–poorly–and thanked her. She wished me luck and said she would have the doctor call me.

Still waiting.

I call on Tuesday. When I identify myself, the secretary takes on a tone where I know I have been labeled that difficult, deranged, annoying, lunatic patient. I can almost hear her eyeballs rolling around in her head. I request an appointment with the doctor.

“He’s booked.”

Okay. Well my surgery is in three days and I need to talk to him before I have it.

“I know the nurse talked to the doctor and they said you could cancel.”

Well that’s nice of them to decide that for me. However, I want my tonsils out. I’ve already requested the time off from work, got a substitute in place, met with my sub to go over plans.

“…” — This is to signify dead air.

I just want 10 minutes. I don’t even need to actually see his face. A phone call. A simple phone call that explains the procedure.

“He can’t give you 10 minutes.”

Alright. Can I ask you a question? Do you think I’m being unreasonable for wanting to talk to the doctor who is going to perform my surgery? It is my body, my health, I’m being put under. Is this so unreasonable?

I sense a whiff of understanding.

“I see you have a post-op scheduled for Oct. 26. Do you want me to schedule a consultation with the doctor?”

Yes. Yes!

“What time?”

Anytime. I will clear my schedule for this appointment.

An hour later, I checked my voicemail on the cell phone I never use and there was a message from the nurse practitioner.

“Hi Speaker, I talked at length with the doctor and told him how anxious you were and he said you didn’t have to go through with it. It’s not a necessary surgery to have and you can continue to live with the condition. Let me know.”

There’s about a .003% chance this doctor will be performing the surgery, but boy do I want to meet with him.

It’s hard to blog. There’s so much on TV. Occasionally you have to eat or go to some place that employs you. And then there’s the thinking of some clever Halloween costume. You really can’t go as Bernie Madoff again. That is soooooo 2008.

So you despair. You think “Oh jeez, here I am writing another post about colostomy bag decoupage. Am I going to lose readers?”

Yes. Yes, you are.

But that’s why I’m here. To tell you how to write the bestest post ever. Follow my surefire method and you will sure feel the fire. . . of awesome writing. Clearly only an awesome writer could write a sentence that awesome.

1. Sound controversial without actually being controversial.

People love them some controversy because it’s so, like, controversial and stuff. But you’ll find when you take a stand on something controversial, you attract the crazies into your world. I found this out the hard way by posting something a little political on my personal Facebook page, which prompted a “friend” to go ape-shit crazy and write a horribly racist reply. Story has nice ending though since “friend” is now “unfriend”.

It’s way better to write about something everyone agrees upon, but sound like you’re taking a stand.

Some examples:

“I know I’m gonna take some heat for saying this, but I think ice cream is creamy.”

And then your readers will feel all smart and cutting edge for agreeing with your “controversial” stance.

2. Include photographs.

You may have noticed the whole Freshly Pressed thingamabob on WordPress, yes? They like them some pictures, the picturey the better. But what if you take pictures like this?

Yes, that’s a problem. But did you know about a thing called the Internetscape? It has pictures on it that you can take to prettify your blogscape. Some of these pictures you can actually use too without violating someone’s copyright. (FYI–the picture of my feet is protected by copyright)

Like stock photos:

Or clip art:

You can even combine the two, and suddenly it’s not just some royalty-free images, it’s art, man.

I call this piece “Is anybody listening, dawg?”

3. Write about popular topics.

My biggest downfall was spending the first few blogging months writing Thomas the Tank Engine porn. People just weren’t into it.

So what do the people like? They seem to like this singing mop-head named Justin Fever. And Fruit Roll-ups®. Oh, and travel blogs. People love them some travel blogs. But what if you don’t travel? What if you’re like me? Someone who always likes to say “Oh my god, I love traveling” while coming up with a million reasons to avoid all travel because traveling is a giant ass ache?

There’s no reason you can’t turn your trip to the grocery store into an epic adventure.

For example: I drove slowly down the street, relishing the frequent traffic lights I encountered. At one stop, I glanced to my left and spotted a delightful pawn shop. How quaint! It makes one feel like they’ve stepped back in time looking at the VCR on display in the barbed-wire covered window.

4. Write lists.

People love them some lists. Why?

1. Because they feel like they will learn something about something

2. ???

3. Because lists remind them of “My Favorite Things” from The Sound of Music and who doesn’t love that movie?

Julie Andrew haters

Nazis

nun haters

5. End with something memorable.

Sometimes it’s hard to come up with an ending. When I run into that trouble, I tack on an inspiring message at the end–even if it has nothing to do with anything I just wrote because people like to be inspired. Do you know that 95 percent of the population own some version of the kitten “Hang in there, baby” poster?

con·sul·ta·tion/ˌkänsəlˈtāSHən/

2.) A meeting with an expert or professional, such as a medical doctor, in order to seek advice

Did you know that a tonsillectomy entails removing one’s tonsils?

Shocking, yes?

This is what I learned yesterday from my pre-operative consultation.

The question I had asked after the nurse practitioner tried to speedily push me out the door in order to get to happy hour at a reasonable time was: So what is going to happen in the surgery?

“You’ll get your tonsils taken out,” she replied.

Um…knew that. Let me rephrase: How the fucking hell is it going to be done? Pliers? Hedge clippers? The Expelliarmus charm from Harry Potter?

“Oh…I don’t know. I’ve never witnessed a tonsillectomy before, but he’s a really good surgeon.”

Well then, I am filled with relief. He will be using the good-surgeon method as opposed to the shit-surgeon one. Phew! Big weight off my even bigger tonsils. Wait, I’m sorry, aren’t you leading my consultation about my tonsillectomy? Shouldn’t you have a basic understanding how such a surgery is performed? Can you at least tell me how long it will take?

So is this guess being pulled directly out of your ass or thin air? The distinction is important to me for some reason because otherwise my brain will blow apart into little pieces. Maybe you would like to see that so you can tell future patients what that looks like.

“If that’s all…”

Hold up, hold up…um how long will it take to recover?

“A week.”

Okay, well I read on some blogs written by people who had this saying the first couple of days aren’t so bad, it’s really fifth–

“Tenth,” she interrupts. “Tenth day’s usually hard. You’ll be fine.”

You just said I would recover in a week. Although I feel completely insane, I’m pretty sure there are still only seven days in a week.

“Oh, you are right! Anyway, I don’t want to keep you. You’ll do great.”

Wait..wait…wait. I’m getting anesthesia so is there any time I should stop eating?

“Oh yeah. Yeah, that’s right. Don’t eat after midnight.”

Because I’ll turn into a Gremlin? This might have been something to have told me during our consultation not in this five-second frenzy of quick questioning as you stick one leg out the door.

1. Research tonsillectomy on the Internet and read posts by people written five days post-surgery. The person who had an easy go of it is not busy posting his easy-peasy experience on the blog. He’s not going to make time to write “This was such a blast, I’m getting another set of tonsils put in so I can get them taken out again😉 ” He’s too busy enjoying his life.

No, the person who is posting is the one who feels like she’s asphyxiating on her tonsil scabs whenever she’s not sipping Gatorade. “I haven’t slept in days. If I don’t drink, it feels like I swallowed 400 jalapenos doused in lava. My teeth have started falling out like I’m the fucking Fly in David Cronenberg’s film.” And this person is topped by the next poster who says she wishes it felt like 400 jalapenos doused in lava. “That would be picnic in the park compared to my agony. Try 7,000 ghost peppers coated in napalm.” She claims lying down will bring about her immediate death.

You contemplate buying this:

But opt for a Lazy Boy recliner instead.

2. Purchase a Lazy Boy recliner at an actual Lazy Boy recliner store. You would think this would be a simple transaction. You point to the chair you want, you pay some form of compensation, you leave with the chair. You believe you will avoid asphyxiating on your tonsil scabs and you will not have to wear something that resembles the cone dogs wear after surgery.

But no.

There is the finding of serial numbers and entering of serial numbers into a device called a computer. There is the misspelling of the last name several times and repeating of spelling. There is paperwork. A stool sample. There is the ad infinitum mention of Guardsman, a furniture protection plan that “only costs 3 cents a day” because “you don’t want to ruin your new chair with an exploding pen.”

In the time that passes, you could have likely built a chair, destroyed it with an exploding pen and built a replacement chair. You realize you filled out less paperwork bringing home a small human from the hospital.

3. Use an exploding pen. Especially while sitting in your new Lazy Boy recliner that lacks a Guardsman furniture protection plan. You thought it would be a good idea to get your will in order since you are undergoing a surgery that causes everyone to bleed profusely from their gaping tonsil-less craters. You want to make sure your blog is taken care of in case of your inevitable demise from reading too many tonsil horror stories. Then your pen explodes and you think why me? But you don’t write this as your status update on Facebook because you fucking hate enigmatic status updates.

4. Write enigmatic status updates on Facebook. Seriously, who do you think you are? Erica Kane?

What the fuck does that even mean? And now you have a sudden interest in this person who you barely know and only accepted her friend request because you shared a math class 20 years ago. You are so riveted you check back on Facebook frequently to see if there’s any updates.

Oh my god, you wonder, what rilly did happneded between them? By this point, 12 people have commented “What’s wrong?” or “Stay strong, girl.” Hmm.

Then she hits you with this:

Wowza! Wowza is right because eight hours have passed. Eight hours you could have used to search the interwebs to find out how to clean tonsil-crater blood off your new non-Guardsman Lazy Boy recliner. Damn, the tonsillectomy blog recommends Guardsman.

The time when one has engorged oneself on countless bags of mini-snickers that one was able to procure regularly from the massive Halloween candy pile on display since early August.

The time when an avid TV viewer can turn on the channel, and see Michael Myers dough-boy face looking impassively back at her.

The time to watch horror movies.

This time of year takes me back to the days when a young Speaker7 put a steak knife under her mattress for “just-in-case” purposes.

I have no business watching scary movies. It is something I cannot handle yet I cannot help myself.

By day, I am a rational pragmatic person who makes decisions based on logic and reason. But at night, that person is gone, replaced by someone who is convinced that lump of dirty clothes in the corner is, in fact, the evil spawn of Jason and Chucky.

I’ve gotten better. I know there is no way in demonic-possession I’m going to watch any of the Paranormal Activity movies. I will never see The Exorcist and I sure as shit ain’t sitting through any movie about a haunted dibbuk box some jerk bought on eBay.

I’ve learned my lesson from a childhood spent sleeping on the floor of my parent’s bedroom. It would follow the usual pattern. I would stay up late by myself watching some horrible movie on HBO. I would go to my bedroom and start panicking the moment I turned out the lights. Five minutes later, I would run down the hall to my parent’s bedroom, and pull out the mattress they kindly stowed under their bed for this very purpose.

So what were the movies that caused me to lose my shit?

1. Salem’s Lot

I don’t even remember the plot of this movie. I just know at one point this blue-looking vampire fuck was flying outside someone’s window. I thought I could protect myself by placing all my stuffed animals on the window seat by the top of the stairs. Yeah, like they could do anything. And you thought Edward Cullen’s sparklyness was frightening.

Length of time on parent’s bedroom floor: one week.

2. Amityville Horror II: The Possession

Yes, okay, the house is filled with some demon spirit that possesses the older brother who then shoots his entire family to death. My house was not filled with evil spirits, but did have an older brother who once chased me around the house with a weed-whacker so–wait, why am I watching this?!?

Length of time on parent’s floor: a month (“More like a year.” — Speaker7’s mom).

3. Friday the 13th

I don’t remember the name of my kindergarten teacher, but I sure as shit remember a bald-headed Jason popping out of the water and grabbing the last remaining camp counselor by the neck and pulling her underwater.

Length of time on parent’s floor: a week

4. Rosemary’s Baby

I would still watch this movie. I think I might have even watched it while pregnant because I am a big genius. To this day I think tarragon is tannis root, and I’m always suspicious of it.

Length of time on parent’s floor: a week.

5. Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory

I know technically this is not a horror movie, but I just have two words for you: Oompa Loompa.

Length of time on parent’s floor: 0, but I wanted to, I really wanted to.

6. The Shining

The little boy with the talking finger, the elevator of blood, the deranged father–yes this is the stuff of nightmares, but they got nothing on those twins, man. Those creepy-as-shit twins. I would make out with a decaying old woman any day of the week over having a conversation with those twins.

Length of time on parent’s floor: six weeks

7. Nightmare on Elm Street

I thought I could handle this one by watching it with the volume turned completely off, a boom-box playing Duran Duran and multiple bags of salt-and-vinegar Wise potato chips, my number one comfort food. Didn’t work.

Length of time on parent’s floor: two months.

8. Scream

Okay, so technically I was not a child when Scream was released in theaters. I was more like in the 20-year-old range. I saw this when I was home for the Christmas holiday and it’s very likely that I snuck into my parent’s room and slept on their floor and snuck out in shame very early the next morning before they woke up.

In a few weeks, I will be saying goodbye to my tonsils. They will move out of the space in the back of my throat that they have been living in rent-free all these years, and take their reoccurring infections with them.

“Just for the record, I hate you both.” – Speaker7

Frankly my tonsils have been acting like giant a-holes with the emphasis on the giant. If this country worshipped giant tonsils rather than giant breasts, I would be regularly featured as a Playboy Tonsilmate.

For the past three years, I have felt like I’ve had popcorn kernels lodged in the back of my throat, and I don’t even eat popcorn. The glands in my neck have swollen to a point that they could appear in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, and people would say “There goes two of the largest balloons I have ever seen.” And I am responsible for the influx of peed-out antibiotics in the local water supply.

I know the recovery is going–to put it bluntly–suck a huge tonsil stone. But I am at the point where I’m ready to take them out myself with a spork.

I find that now people know of my impending surgery, they find it of great import to tell me their own personal tonsillectomy-horror story. I’ve been regaled with tales of throwing up blood and post-anthesia paralysis. I’ve been told that yes, the person had them out as a child, and yet the person remembers it as the most vividly horrifying experience of the person’s life.

I enjoy this.

I do because I’m going to have my tonsils out in less than three weeks.

So please, by all means tell me:

I had my tonsils out and I threw up so much blood, they had to give me all new blood and then my head fell off.

-or-

I was scheduled to get my tonsils removed and the doctors accidentally removed my larynx instead. They replaced it with the mechanical voice box of a talking Barbie. Math class is hard. Tee-hee.

-or-

I had my tonsils removed and now I can’t stop scatting. Zoop-de-flee, zoop-de-fly.

-or-

I had my tonsils out and they went on to win The Voice and refused to get me into the after party.

-or-

I had my tonsils out and now they’re seeing someone else and have even proposed. What does that person’s throat have that mine doesn’t?

That one especially hurts. Get it? Get it?

Because it’s the worst pain in the history of pain in the history of surgeries in the history of vomiting blood.